Saving Emma
by Fiesole
Summary: The story of a modern day opera prodigy who is haunted by her charmed life and comforted by a painful voice from a very distant past. Is a legend true enough to survive time? R&R Please.
1. Chapter 1 to 10

_I. The Vanity_

She sat, gazing at her reflection into the mirror before her. A strong face, angular, with a smooth and angelic pallor brushed across the glass in dusky light. She moved with languid movement to her cosmetics, the make up to conceal the features she resented. Deepest midnight fog charcoal brushed around her lids, hiding the purple smudges and exhausted creases left by sleepless nights. Peacock blue and deep plum powdered in the corners of her eyes to set off the blue hazel shards across her irises, and a thick crimson lipsticked the frame of her mouth to complete the appearance of drama. She swept up her blonde mahogany locks into a knot, and batted her heavy eyelashes with pixie grace to examine the effect. The unsettling complexion of an actress.

The cheap lights in the hallway beat lightly like small, blinking lanterns through the shutters of her doorway, as if beckoning her presence before the masses. She rose from her cushioned seat and dressed into her costume; a trailing champagne empire gown ornamented with gold flourishes and virgin white lace, a queen in her own right. She turned once more into the mirror and acknowledged her heavenly appearance, crudely outlined in the room's poor light. Softly she stepped out onto the backstage ramparts of the theater, an ivory vision becoming one with the shadows.

_II. Announcement_

**The New York Metropolitan Opera House presents-  
**Debutante mezzo-soprano _Emmanuelle-Marie  
_As _Marguerite _in Gounod's **_FAUST  
_**A limited engagement tonight!

_III. The Curtain_

The audience's silence is in my ears, it is roaring, ringing, beating against my heart. It's an arrhythmia. I'm unstable. The stage is an earthquake. Everyone is running to their places- feet are drumming, pounding the floor in and I can feel it in my legs. I'm short of breath, I can't feel, my body has gone numb. I'm reeling here underneath these stage lights, and my vision is lost within the scarlet drapery of the curtain. The orchestra plucks and pines and draws out the overture, as I follow with my eyes the velvety smudges strewn across the curtain the cleaners missed. I love their imperfection, and I long to touch them and trace them with my fingers.

The overture ends, and I lose consciousness.  
The bright light warms my skin.  
The curtain has been pulled.  
I'm alive.

_IV. Review_

"…Shockingly the most memorable moment in theatre this week happened to be at the Metropolitan Opera's production of _Faust_. An operatic theater company as famously prestigious as the Metropolitan is expected to please, to entertain, and yes, this is all too often cliché. However, this particular showing deceived and dazzled those of us fortunate enough to have been in the audience that night. Ms. Emmanuelle Davies, the now out-of-nowhere rising soprano of the season, began the night with average understudy expectations as the company's major season soprano, Dame Eva Paolini, is currently engaged in France as she completes her European Tour. Though publicity for the performance favored Ms. Davies, the audience entered quite reserved. Ms. Davies' inexperience allowed the audience to dismiss her, and her immature stage presence let them disregard her, yet as the opera progressed we quickly learned we had miscalculated. The company let her sing, and Ms. Davies voice was pure pitch and luxurious vibrato, her emotion unmatched even by the performance's infamous commanding Tenor, Mr. Alain Panaro. The most impressive moment of Ms. Davies night was easily her hauntingly unique and fluid rendition of Gonoud's charming Jewel Song…"

_V. The Aria_

I know the others are watching me, peering from offstage left, right, and above in the rigging, and I feel the staring audience though I can barely see any suggestion of a human figure. I am boring into them with my eyes, yet seeing nothing past the stage light. Blindness was good; it allowed better focus. Focus.

Focus. I feel the chord progression in the music fly from the orchestra pit, as my conductor's arms stretch wide as if trying to embrace the stage. The intensity of the moment consumes me. I inhale, letting my body expand with the rush of air, lungs screaming power. The strings ebb in cue as my heart bursts…

_Aaahh!  
Je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir!  
Ah! Je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir!  
Est-ce toi, Marguerite? Est-ce toi?  
Réponds-moi! Réponds-moi!  
Réponds, réponds, réponds vite!_

(I laugh to see myself so beautiful in the mirror!.. Answer me, answer me.)

Inhaling vibration, breathing out sound, inhaling, and singing. I am soaring! I become Marguerite, running to the prop chest of sparkling jewels at stage left, adorning myself with its gems and opulent riches as I lift and gaze into a golden hand mirror. I let my bejeweled fingers twirl my curled locks for girlish effect as I sing, as loud and passionate as I know how. And I was born knowing how.

_Ah s'il était ici  
S'il me voyait ainsi comme une demoiselle!..  
_(Ah, If only he were here. If he should see me thus like a lady!)

"_Oh, my lady." _

The croon in the back of my mind startles me at first, but I soften, allowing it warm my song. The faint tenor is melancholy with violent intensity but it brushes the uncertainty of my thoughts away, encouraging me. It's like a liquid that bathes my soul and though I have never heard such a tone before, I feel it is almost a homely familiarity. My heart slowly starts to burn, and I suddenly feel the urge to find the whisper's owner, stop, search and hold such a genius, let the melodious sound nestle me- a small girl lost in whirling orchestration, but-

God, I can't- I rise in panic as I discover my Body, almost paralyzed- and my Voice, oh! it continues to sing Now on its own. I shift my eyes to each corner of the stage as I proceed and see my company patiently watching, undisturbed. Undisturbed? How could they! I want to whimper, to choke, to rid myself of this sickening sensation, but I sing on as my thought begins to collapse, as the diamonds and gems' soft Glimmer becomes sparkling Fire in the eyes of my twisted sanity. The mirror in my hand appears to swirl in frustration and shatter. I am consciously unwinding in mad confusion, yet I still sing. I sing with unholy Passion.

I feel possessed by the Voice. It gives me an unearthly sound.

_Il me trouverait belle comme une demoiselle!  
_(He would find me so beautiful like a lady!)

"_So beautiful, my lady."_

Oh.. Stop. My lungs ache- my head is reeling- my renegade voice pulses Notes and I'm shaking! The stage is a wild abyss and Marguerite's surroundings disappear as I feel the Music pouring, gushing from my Heart- sound splattering the ceiling- the walls- to the farthest reaches of the mezzanines and the floors of this charmed hall- absolutely Everything- as I lose my Mind.

I laugh to see myself so beautiful in the mirror. Answer me, answer me…

_VI. Dialogue A_

"What, the -hell- is going on around here?!"  
"Wellsuh, we jus'took her back an' then he-"  
"English, dammit, Harley! You may be in the bloody City but you work in my House! If I wanted an bumbling idiot I would've hired your mother, yes your mother, Harley. You obviously learned that hideous-"  
"Uh yesssuh-Sir."  
"-American dialect from family. Now, exactly- what is wrong with the girl?"  
"We don' really know- she just wandered offstage after the aria, eyes glazed over an' stuff- passed out only a minute ago off backstage left. James's got her now."  
"James?"  
"Yessuh, Mr. Richard, I mean, Yessir Mr. Rich-"  
"Well anyways, she will sing."  
"But Rosie says she ain't gonna tonight. She's sendin' up the secondary understudy to complete the show."  
"I am manager here, not Beth, and I say she sings. Tell 'Rosie', the girl sings or that woman does herself."  
"Look here, Em's out cold in her dressing room-"  
"With James! Get that boy out here and away from my soprano."  
"Uhm, he's her fiancé, suh."  
"Sir, Harley, its SIR, and I don't care if he's the damned Queen of England, get him out here!"

_VII. The Collapse_

Her performance shocked even the cast and company. No one expected the sounds, the emotions that left Emma that night. Her constantly rushed actions that concerned the maestro, her timid charm that the casting director found adorably endearing was gone and replaced by the mad passion and technique of a prodigy.

When Emmanuelle-Marie had finished her aria, she stood deathly still, so steady the director feared she might forget her exit or worse faint on center stage. But no, her finish was perfect too, perfectly mechanical, perfectly timed. Her steps were not hasty nor tentative, but light; a smooth gliding waltz that ruffled the tresses of her gown and whisked her long wisps of blonde as if it was being brushed back by a spring breeze, a divine exit to match her pure, glorious sound. No one spoke, nor moved, nor blinked for fear they would damage the precious moment of this heavenly child's aura; hopefuls awaiting another note, another song.

As soon as she ventured glassy eyed beyond the stunned audience's line of sight, the young soprano collapsed wide eyed to the floor as if on cue. The audience was in an uproarious applause now, screaming encores and hails of praise, even as she tumbled into the arms of a horrified crewboy, clutching the collar of his sweat stained shirt. Dark grease from the prop gears he had managed during the show was slicked on his hands and stained her fairy tale costume in murky blotches where he had caught her. The sight of the mess, imperfections on this soft angelic songbird, made him want to wretch. She let out the softest of whispered sighs; a silent gasp voiced into his ear as her eyes fluttered shut and flesh paled.

"It answered me…_it answered me_."

Unaware of the trauma backstage, the audience continued to howl in a raving ovation.

_VIII. Dialogue B_

"Harley!"  
"Thank God, I finally found you in this fuckin' madhouse, James. Richards wants you."  
"Does it look like I give a damn about Richards? Emma's unconscious after a perfectly good performance! Just fetch a damn paramedic would you?"

_IX. From the Darkness_

She felt the silken bedding against her skin and awoke. She allowed the soft light emanating from her surroundings to gently stir her from her dreamy haze. She had to blink several times before her eyes adjusted and were able to take in the detail of the room around her. She had fallen asleep on a plush bed with white sheets and a thick deep scarlet bedspread was kissed by mahogany threaded embroidered flowers that matched the wooden furniture. The walls had been papered, a warm pinkish red with honeyed yellow decorative embellishments. A stunning porcelain and caramel vanity set faced opposite a vastly golden framed full length mirror on the far right side of the room. Hundreds of crimson, ivory, and blush colored roses flooded several vases scattered throughout the room. A cozy, secure room, filled with rich warm hues; there were no windows.

Suddenly uncertain of her surroundings, she sat up and combed her disheveled bed hair with her fingers before tucking the loose strands behind her ears. She noticed she was dressed in an elaborate chiffon dressing gown, strange, it was classic in style. Standing up she peered around the room, and noticed an even stranger change. The once warmly lit walls began to grow dark with menacing shadow. She gasped and started to scour the room's wall surface looking for an exit- in a corner by the vanity- a door. She ran and fumbled with the brass knob as the darkness started to overcome her.  
It was then that she felt it.  
Something was behind her, watching.

_By the mirror_. She groped the doorknob and began gasp for air as fright emptied her lungs. The door would not budge, and it was nearing her, closer, closer, she could feel it, in her heart and in her soul. Hopelessness overcoming her, she snapped her eyes shut and turned to face her fate.

She inhaled and opened her eyes.

A reflection. Her reflection. She walked towards the mirror and reached out to its surface, touching the glass, her image with her finger tips.

And then from behind her, she felt the shadow slip its powerful self around her waist. Her entire body enveloped within its massive clutches. Covering her mouth in a fiercely rough motion it tried to suppress her piteous sounds, but it was no use. She felt herself drown in her own desperate, muffled screams.

_X. Dialogue C_

"Are you James Glidden?"  
"Yes! Oh, thank God you're here-"  
"Emma Davies, correct? Where is she?"  
"Over here, th-this way, in here, here, her dressing room-"  
"I have a report saying she's unconscious. How long has she been out for?"


	2. Chapter 11 to 15

_XI. James_

When he had received the letter concerning the New York Metropolitan Opera Annual Fundraising Gala, he took it as apathetically as any business party. His family had promoted the arts for years- painters, writers, singers, musicians, ballet companies, and the Gala was just another business to attend to, more money to donate, and more popularity to gain. His father after all had won three terms as a Senator several years back, and his mother's family owned the most prestigious publishing firm in the Northeast. Wealth, popularity, and politics were the Glidden's business. Social productivity and massive patronage kept the hungry public satisfied and that's where the Metropolitan Opera House came into play.

This would be James Glidden's second year as primary patron to the Metropolitan Opera Company. Beforehand the position belonged to his mother, a great lover of opera, who had passed down the honor to her son with great resentment at the request of James's father. The only glitch in the family's graceful gesture was that he had no interest in opera. Frankly James had no interest in arts what so ever. James Glidden was too busy studying political science at Columbia University, as his father did before him. And it was with faked enthusiasm that he followed tradition, donated the money, and attended the boring galas.

However, this particular gala would turn out to be anything but dull.

She was hovering around the hors d'oeuvres table next to a man whom James recognized as the Opera's old British director, Charles Richards. Her dark blonde hair, rich with brown lowlights, was swept up in a simple chignon of lovely Bologna curls and was wearing a cascading sage gown with a plunging heart shaped neckline. Looking closely with shock, James could see she was no more than seventeen. He continued to watch as Richards proceeded to introduce the girl to the opera's patrons and Opera Company.

But who the hell was she?

"The director and his wife took her in. Like a ward, I suppose," said one of the Italian tenors James had been chatting with. He had met him at last years gala. The singer was on his third martini, and was obnoxiously fumbling with the stir and olive as he spoke. Slightly drunk, he'd be a good source of information without reserve. "She's graduating from high school in the spring. Shocking isn't it?"  
"What's shocking?"  
"Well, her- voice, age, everything. Richards says she's the best he's heard with her youth. Prodigy it seems. She's coming to sing with us you know- as a choral member. Richards is bent on getting her a mezzo-soprano role one day."  
"Here? At the Metropolitan?"  
"Yeah, that's what I said. Crazy isn't it? That old coot's lost his marbles." The tenor took the final swig from his glass. "I haven't heard her sing a single note. I suppose she must be decent- 'cause even Rosie's going crazy. But everybody knows mezzo voices don't mature till their late twenties." James nodded. He knew Beth Rosenblatt was the Company's vocal coach from his mother's dinner parties.  
"But how did Mr. and Mrs. Richards, ah- acquire the girl?"  
"Niece, orphaned very young I believe. Shame, shame. Sent her to live with Mrs. Richards in London. Home schooled, I think." James furrowed his brow. Mr. Richards was in his sixties now, but continued to spend the majority of his time in New York City these days managing the Opera performances, while Mrs. Richards tended to stay in their London home. "Where is Mrs. Richards now?"  
"London still. We got bets going that their marriage's on the rocks. Ha-ha! It's loving that niece that keeps them together I reckon. Well, I'm out of a drink and going back to the bar, care for anything?"

James politely declined the inebriated singer's offer and began to make his way to the director and his new protégé. Richards was dressed in a clean cut tuxedo which clashed with his bristly mustached and wrinkled face. He seemed to be trying to tell a story to several guests with little success- the men's eyes were wandering and his niece's lovely face was anxiously staring at the hemline of her stress.

"-And that's when I told them to go get their own bloody diva! Ha! Oh my, James Glidden! I didn't see you there, boy!" The director shoved past his guests, who were quite relieved at the Director's new distraction. Richards elatedly shook James's hand. "Glad you could make it here this evening! Your parents are well I take it?"  
"Yes, very much, Sir. I'll tell them you asked."  
"What a well mannered gentleman you are, James!" James felt his eyes start to wander towards the girl. Mr. Richards caught his line of sight.  
"Ah! I don't think you've the Company's newest student? James, I'd like you to meet my niece. Emmanuelle, this is James Glidden, his family has been our opera's main patron for many years now."  
"Emma, Uncle Charlie, have them call me Emma," She daintily grasped James's hand with surprising firmness. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Glidden."

"Emma, the pleasure is all mine."  
He stared in awe, melting at the sight of an angelic appearance so near; he could reach out to touch its entrancing grace.

A round face with angular yet finely chiseled features stared, smiling innocently back. She had a strong chin and nose, and deep blue seductive doe eyes set off by thick lashes. A Victorian beauty that James expected himself to find in one of his mother's many Sargent or Degas paintings. Tightly clutching her small waist and shaping her curves, her viridian dress encouraged her strikingly mature goddess look.

Their eyes met, crashing into each other with forceful allure. By now James had forgotten Richard's presence. He could hear him saying something, probably meaningless in the background.

_Emmanuelle_

Somehow Aphrodite was only seventeen, and he, James Glidden; determined university student and business extraordinaire, had fallen completely in love with her.

_XII. Dialogue D_

"What do you mean 'he won't see me'?!"  
"Yessir, that's what he said."  
"Harley, you're a bloody useless idiot. Tell Beth to send up the understudy just in case and call an emergency fifteen minute intermission."  
"Yessir- and James called an ambulance."  
"Paramedics? That boy has no damned right. The last thing I need is paramedics in my bloody Opera House to set off a panic. Out of the way, Harley, I'm going to get Emma."

_XIII. Reverie_

He shoved open the door with the paramedic in tow. There she was just as he left her- a fallen angel crumpled in the billows of her dressing room couch. He ordered the stagehands to keep her costume on until she had a proper medical examination in case she had injured anything. Her hair had fallen in disarray and was clinging to her face in sweaty clumps. Her eye makeup was also a mess- teary streaks of black and purple powder was frosted around her eyes as if she were wearing the midnight mask of a Venetian princess, hiding her beauty with a dark secret.

James angrily swore under his breath. Her white gown was smudged with black grease- it would cost a fortune to replace that dress.

_XIV. Tension_

The paramedic walked over to the girl, set his case of medical paraphernalia down, and began to examine the girl. James paced the room- maybe it was too soon for Emma to sing regardless of the Dame's absence, maybe he had pushed her too hard, maybe he hadn't pushed her hard enough..

"She's conscious, sleeping it looks like, normal pulse and temperature of 97. I'd say you should let her rest. Looks like exhaustion," drawled the paramedic. James flinched at his Southern accent.

_Thump.  
_The door blasted open and smashed into the wall with such force the neat frames covering Emma's walls swung and stuck crooked.

"What the bloody hell is going on here, where is my Emma?" It was Richards, of course. James rolled his eyes.  
"Emma seems to be fine, exhaustion actually-"  
"James!" roared Richards interrupting the paramedic's quiet response, "You made her practice extra hours didn't you? Damn you-"  
"Blaming me? I'm not the one who still wants her to go on tonight."  
"-Bloody bastard, I know you make her practice extra hours. I've had Harley-"  
"Harley? That useless snitch of yours? He interrupts Emma's singing sessions that's why she has to go fucking overtime," James shot the old director a venomous look.  
"I'm her guardian, boy, not you. I'm responsible for managing this girl's health."  
"And I'm responsible for making sure her career doesn't go down the damn tubes."  
"She would've been able to continue tonight if you hadn't blown out all her energy- sex, practice hours! Now look what you've done, we're sending out an understudy to replace her. How does that look for publicity, Moneybags?"  
"I think, my services here are not needed anymore." The paramedic was looking at the two quarreling men with shock and fright. "Have a good afternoon!" He bolted for the door. James had never seen anyone exit a room as quickly as that poor man.

The men stared angrily at each other and began to open their mouths in protest.  
And then: a sigh.

_XV. Awakening_

My screams for help against the darkness melt into the frustrated shouts of others. They are so familiar, yet so far. I struggle against the creature binding me, and shut my eyes. I feel the dressing room melt away- every rose, candle, crimson drapery. Suddenly, I want to cry. Somehow I know I will miss this place of terrible beauty and horror. My desires to escape this room leave me; I want to feel this cool rush of midnight against my skin, this tragic fear of being trapped forever. I want to hold onto the darkness, grasp it tightly, and never leave its binding arms. Somehow I have become seduced by this world of nightmares by hearing the distant noise of others- screaming men. I drift through space as everything blurs.

I don't want to hear these men; I don't want to go back to them.  
I want the roses, the vanity, the mirror, the creature. I want darkness.

And then, I begin to understand.  
I am regaining consciousness, I am waking up.

I feel myself sigh with disappointment as my eyes blink into clear focus.


End file.
